


The First Footsteps

by DayStar



Category: The Maze Runner Series - James Dashner
Genre: Angst, Hurt/Comfort, I'm Bad At Summaries, M/M, nalby - Freeform
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-09-26
Updated: 2014-10-04
Packaged: 2018-02-18 20:20:07
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 9,104
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2361029
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DayStar/pseuds/DayStar
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When Newt finds himself in the Maze, his world is made of uncertainty. But as he lives and grows with Alby and the rest of the Gladers, fighting to solve the Maze, it seems like he's been given an answer to at least one of his many, many questions. There are things worth fighting for.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Rise

**Author's Note:**

> Oh God, the summary. Sorry guys. Having managed to get through that, I should warn you that I've not yet decided what warnings this should have, so the rating and warnings may change. I've only read the first book/watched the first movie, so please no spoilers, thank you very much! This will be a mixture from the movie and the book, and it may diverge from canon at some points in time, but not hugely.
> 
> Beyond that, comments and criticisms most definitely welcome and I hope you enjoy this!

_Cold,_ was the first thought through his head when he floundered into consciousness. His cheek was pressed against something cool and hard, and goose bumps rose along his bare arms, but when his eyes wrenched open they found nothing to answer the questions rampaging through his head. Nothing but darkness. It smothered him, the dim obscurity, an intangible weight so heavy he began to panic.

With a muffled gasp the boy shoved himself into a crouch, head ducked, half expecting… he didn’t know what he was expecting. After several tense moments, however, when nothing changed, when nothing horrible happened, his painfully tight muscles began to relax. Leaning back slightly, his breath flooded from his lungs as his shoulders brushed against something hard, but common sense asserted itself before he could fully freak out. He was touching a wall or something, nothing more.

 _Get a hold, Newton._ The sarcastic thought, coming from deep within the flurry of questions, made him pause, pulling away from the exterior. His frantic heartbeat slowed. Newton. Newton. That was his name. Why did that fact sit so strangely in his chest?

As his initial panic receded he started to actually _think,_ and that was, in a way, quite a bit more terrifying than confronting the dark of the outside. Because it turned out there was a hell of a lot of dark on the inside, too.

He couldn't remember anything. Well, that was a lie. Newton knew his name but he couldn’t recall anyone ever calling him by it. Two plus two was four, but no teacher leaned over his shoulder and taught him math in his memory. The hollow pit in his stomach begged for food – preferably baked potatoes or a nectarine – but he had no recollection of making or eating those items.

It was like someone had erased Newton from the world but hadn’t managed to erase the world from Newton. It was like reaching out for the edge of a cliff as you fell and missing. It was like dying of thirst and finding water, only to realize it was the ocean. Gut wrenching.

No matter how hard he scrambled to remember something – anything – about himself, nothing came to his pleading fingers. The tension that had just left was back, harder than before. Terror came to grab his throat in a steely grasp, and once again the lack of light was forefront in his mind, suffocating and all-encompassing.

 _I’m Newton,_ he thought in desperation, _but what does that even mean?_

His stomach churning – from hunger and agitation both – he tried to focus on his surroundings beyond the darkness, frantic to find something to grasp on to. This, at least, was a puzzle that might not lead to a pit of nothing.

Getting carefully to his feet, the boy felt along the unyielding object he’d touched minutes (hours?) earlier, running his hands over its length. A steel floor at the bottom and, at the very brink of his reach, an equally hard ceiling made his vertical search a short one. The wall was unbroken as he set out from there, one hand trailing along it as the other played wary guard against any unseen objects. The action helped take the edge off his panic, but it was a temporary solution at best, and that knowledge lurked in the emptiness of his head, ready to pull him back to the horror of his lost identity.

He’d stopped. Heaving a deep breath, Newton forced one foot to move, then the next. Repeat. He took five small steps before coming up against another wall. Eight steps took him to the next one, and Newton didn’t have to finish his circuit to realize he was in a square room. He did anyways, though, desperate to discover some answer. It was in vain.

His exploration took about three minutes. Four walls, the floor, the ridged ceiling and nothing in between. It was a room, it had to be a room – his mind conjured up images of coffins that he shied away from – but what kind of a room had no doors?

The panic hadn’t left, it had simply rode shotgun, but now it came forward again, taking control and driving him straight off the nearest cliff. Newton screamed for help until it felt like his throat must be bleeding, pounded his hands against the walls until he knew they _were_ bleeding. Nothing – not his fists, not his feet, not his shoulders – so much as dented any part of his prison, and it wasn’t long before he was too fatigued to keep trying.

Giving up abruptly, overwhelmed by a despair that was stronger than his hysteria, Newton slid down the wall to collapse in a slumped heap. His hand, trembling, rose up to slowly trace his smooth face and it occurred to him in an amazingly detached way that he didn’t know what colour that hand was, if it was weak or strong, pale or tanned. He didn’t know anything. Nothi-

 _Ker-chunk._ A sudden thud derailed his thoughts and Newton flinched. He flinched again when the sound was repeated and, with a teeth jarring shudder, his room began to _move._ The initial noise was replaced with a metallic screeching, and the speed increased, increased until he could feel gravity pulling at his limbs, trying to stick them to the floor. The room was going up – flying up – at a rate that had his heart in his mouth, his stomach somewhere in his chest. Getting up would have been hard, but all Newton could do was cling to the uncertain metal ground, inhuman sounds slipping out from between his clenched teeth.

The ride took forever. Longer than that, as far as the boy was concerned. He was so far beyond fear that he was almost insensate. The tight pit in his stomach became a physical sickness, sloshing around until he was convinced he was going to throw up. Eyes screwed shut – as if that would help anything – mouth pressed into a thin line, Newton struggled against the nausea, fought to retain that one bit of equanimity in the middle of his turmoil. _Don’t heave._ He couldn’t think about where, why, how or even who in the midst of his distress, could only focus on that one small, sad goal.

Perhaps that was a blessing.

Someone with a watch could have said how long he was in the ascending coffin – he’d become feverishly convinced that that was what the room was – but Newton certainly couldn’t. He only knew that, minutes or hours or days later, with a protesting shriek that rang painfully in his ears, the ride came to an abrupt end, so abrupt that he was actually thrown up into the air for a brief moment by the force of his momentum.       

Landing with a low grunt, he came as close as he would to throwing up, but a mighty effort forced the sickness from his throat and back to his stomach, where it sat and festered. Feeling somewhat like he’d just gone through a descent to hell (or the equivalent of) and survived, the boy raised himself back into a seated position, his whole body throbbing with pain and discomfort. He’d barely managed that when a grinding moan announced the beginning of his next trial.

The roof disappeared. Not suddenly; it was peeled back, and light came flooding into his prison, so bright he cried out and flung up a hand over his eyes. The sudden silence that accompanied the light played across his ears, a soothing balm compared to the tortured screaming of the metal that had hoisted him up, but it didn’t last for very long. A voice – a voice! – broke it.

“He looks about done in.”

Another voice, deeper than the first, answered. “You did too, Gally. Give him a moment.”

“Yeah, but he’s _green._ Green as the damn grass. I wasn’t like that.”

Their voices faded a bit as his concentration broke; the light was finally becoming bearable. Newton slowly let his arm drop, eyes slightly narrowed against the glare. His heart was picking up its pace again – it had practically stopped in the… the elevator? – but that was almost a good thing. It distracted his gut from its current objective of hurling itself out of his mouth. Swallowing hard, Newton tried to pick up the conversation. They were still talking about him, and more voices had joined the din.

“Think one of us should go down there?”

“He should be able to hold himself up.”

“Hold himself up? Ben, I think he’s a bit preoccupied with holding himself _down._ You wanna be wiping that clunk off the supplies when the Box comes up again?”

“Let the Creators deal with the mess.”

“As if they wou-”

Something – a rope – suddenly dropped down amidst a chorus of exclamations, a foot or so from his face, and a second later a body joined it, landing with a grace that belied the distance it had jumped. Newton stumbled back, but the boy who had joined him in his room grabbed his arm in a grip that was far too strong for him to break. Weakened by terror and nausea and pain, Newton wasn’t entirely sure he wouldn’t break _himself_ if he tried.

Regardless, the boy did nothing but steady him before pulling his hand away and, somehow reassured by the steadiness in that brief clasp, Newton found himself studying the first person he’d met for as long as he could remember.

_Which isn’t bloody long._

The dark skinned boy was taller than he was by a good three or four inches, muscular in a way that was intimidating and impressive at the same time. By the creases on his face, Newton thought that he was probably at least eighteen. He was sweating – and now that Newton thought about it, it had heated up in the box – and his white shirt was stained with dirt and grass and torn in places. All in all, his condition wasn’t one to inspire confidence, but he didn’t look hostile. At all, actually. Tired, maybe, but Newton was faintly shocked to realize that the boy mainly looked concerned.

“My name’s Alby,” his deep voice rolled out, identifying him as the second person Newton had heard speak. Alby continued. “Look, I know this has got to be one hell of a shock, but we gotta get you out of the Box. We’re not going to hurt you, okay? We’ll try and get this sorted out when we’re up.”

Dumbly Newton nodded, and the taller male carefully grabbed the rope, which turned out to have a loop at the end. He proffered it to Newton with a brusque thrust. “Think you can hold on to this?”

Newton meant to nod again, he really did, but his head was shaking, shaking hard, frantically, and his hands rose up in an automatic defensive gesture. No, no, he couldn’t hold onto a rope, he couldn’t even hold on to a memory. How did he know it was a rope, how did he know they meant to hoist him out, how? How?

Before the questions could overwhelm him, Newton found himself grabbed by Alby again. “None of that,” the dark skinned boy said, and though the words were hard his tone was calm, reassuring. “If you can’t hold on, I’ll help you. Relax. You’re going to be fine.”

Some strange sound rasped out of his tortured throat, and it took Newton a moment to realize he was trying to laugh. Abandoning the attempt and ignoring the cautious worry on Alby’s face, the boy deliberately shook his head. “Nah…” he grated painfully. And that was as far as he could get, too dazed to say anything more.

After a brief pause, Alby rolled his thick shoulders and gently but firmly pulled the thinner boy closer. With a brief bit of wrangling, during which Newton just stood there, unresisting, he managed to fit the loop around Newton’s right foot, and then his own left foot. Holding the boy tightly with one hand, the other grasping the rope, he tugged on it and called, “Alright, we’re ready.”

It took some time, but eventually they were both hauled over the edge of the pit, several hands eager to help their last meter or so. As soon as his feet touched the grass, Newton shook off Alby’s hand and staggered a few feet away, needing to get space from the cluster of males who had surrounded them, momentarily tuning out their exuberant voices but keeping his eyes fixed on them. His stomach was still in an upheaval, and it made focusing on anything incredibly difficult. He could barely manage to keep his eyes on the other boys.

There were three – four counting Alby. Newton didn’t recognize any of them. He was surprised by how crushingly disappointing that was. Had he really expected to, what, know them? Find they were long lost friends? They weren’t. They ranged in age and in height, but all of them were looking at him with a wild mixture of expectation, hope and curiosity. There was no recognition from either side – and it really felt like there were two sides. Him, and them.

The babble had died down when they realized he wasn’t listening, and one of the boys – tall, dirty blonde hair, burnt face – stepped forward, almost aggressively. “Hey Greenie,” he said, and there was a lightly contemptuous note in the greeting that made Newton stiffen automatically. “I’m Gally, and this is the Glade. Don’t suppose you remember anything useful?” That condescending note lingered, and, tight lipped and pale, Newton shook his head, sensing that the other boy was referring to the appalling gap in his memory.

Gally laughed bitterly. “Course you don’t. Too much to hope for, I guess.” The animation rapidly fled the other boys’ faces, leaving withdrawn masks, and most of them trailed away, leaving behind Gally and Alby. Gally’s face had sunk just like the others. “You get sick, Greenface, and you’re cleaning it up,” he muttered before stalking away.

Newton stared after them helplessly, his limbs and heart feeling like lead. What was with these boys? Why had they looked so hopeful? Did – did they not know any more than he did? It was a dispiriting thought, that no one could answer his questions, and his gut roiled, almost in protest.

Alby shook his head. “Don’t worry about them,” he said, quite dismissively. “We’ve just been… well, it don’t matter much. Gally’s gonna apologize in a few hours, when he’s cooled off.” The dark skinned boy had edged closer, gradually and carefully, and it occurred to Newton that Alby was trying not to startle him, like he was a wounded animal. Or maybe a cornered one.

He felt like both.

Lifting a shaking hand, he held it over his eyes, trying to hide the tears that were finally threatening to spill across his cheeks. He’d had no inclination to cry before but now, confronted with the real evidence that there might not be an end – permanent or otherwise – to his uncertainty, he felt his anguish well up in a great wave, impossible to resist for long.

He cried, almost noiselessly, tears trickling down his face as his shoulders shook. He cried for what he’d lost, what he couldn’t remember losing, what he was going to face. He cried because it felt like there was absolutely nothing else he could do – except for, maybe, jumping back into the box and hoping he broke his neck in the fall.

Pushed far passed the point of reason by the insane stress of an insane situation, Newton pictured himself doing just that and found the image humorous. Funny, somehow. They’d sent him up, and he was going to jump straight back down. His quavering lips formed into an unsteady smile, his hand dropped as his tears slowed and then stopped. Alby hadn’t made any move to bother him while he’d cried, but upon seeing the smile he returned it, the grin taking the lines from his haggard face. Newton knocked three years off his original estimate of eighteen.

“Not bad,” Alby said, that smile still lingering. “Not bad at all. Ben was the last guy to come up, and he took off like a lunatic after we lugged him up.”

Clearing his throat and wincing at the pain of it, Newton shrugged, feeling dizzy at the motion. “Maybe that just proves he’s still on his trolley.” Alby looked intrigued by the statement, so the younger boy clarified, “Maybe he’s not crazy.”

“Good that you’re talking,” Alby observed instead of agreeing. “Thought you might be a half mute or something. You got a name?”

Newton opened his mouth, shut it, and frowned. A wave of intense loathing washed over him, so strong he actually staggered, helped along by his dizziness. Instantly Alby was there, grabbing him by the shoulders, keeping him from falling. “Sorry,” the older boy was apologizing, “should be taking you inside…” but Newton wasn’t really listening, his lips moving wordlessly as he struggled against the darkness encroaching at the corner of his vision.

He couldn’t bear to say Newton. It… somehow it stood for all of this. For his loss and his questions and the looming certainty that nothing was going to be good ever again. With a relief that was like a great inhalation of fresh air, the slim boy blinked his eyes, staring at Alby, and muttered, “Newt. My name’s Newt.”

And then, all at once, the darkness was rushing at him, and with comforting familiarity he embraced the oblivion it brought.


	2. The Tour

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Obviously these guys are a bit OC, but I figure that two or three years dealing with the Maze is bound to change people, and I wanted to make sure that I could develop them as I wrote. Beyond that, hope you guys like it, thanks for the kudos!

He woke some time later, thin wooden beams greeting his eyes as they flickered open. He’d been put into a ramshackle hut – barely large enough to fit him – that didn’t have a floor; the grass beneath him wasn’t enough to soften the ground. When Newton sat up, his body ached in dull protest. Someone had thrown a blanket over him and bandaged his raw hands, hiding the bloody scrapes across his knuckles.

It was a testament to his situation that even being able to remember the elevator ride up was a joy so strong he could almost taste it. No other memories came with his consciousness, but having anything to sit in the empty spot in his head was a monumental relief that Newton couldn’t begin to question. His nausea was mostly gone, replaced by a fierce twinge in his stomach, and the boy shifted into a crouch (the hut was too short to stand upright in) and made his way outside.

Alby was seated nearby, whittling at a stick, and he rose as soon as he caught sight of Newton. “You’re up!” he exclaimed, setting the stick to the side. “Had us worried for a bit there; ain’t had someone look quite as bad as you after the ride up.”

Newton might have answered him, except his eyes were busy bugging out of his head.

In the weeks to come, he wouldn’t be able to explain how he hadn’t noticed the Maze looming up around them when he’d first been pulled out of the Box. Maybe his mind just couldn’t take the enormity of it, had chosen to ignore it for the sake of his sanity. Maybe he’d been fixated on the first humans he could ever remember seeing.

Whatever the reason, he certainly noticed now. It was surprisingly hard to disregard four walls soaring up so high you had to crane your neck to even see the top. The long strands of ivy hanging from the barricades gave them a sense of permanence, as if they’d been there for centuries and would still be there for centuries more. There were three – four – gaps in the walls, though Newton couldn’t tell where they led to. It was mind numbing and awe-inspiring and it made the boy who stared at them, mouth agape, feel like an insignificant speck.

And that was just the walls. Held in between them like some tiny patch of ironic paradise, the rest of the area, lit by an afternoon sun, stretched out for farther than Newton’s eyes could follow. He was near the center, in a huge meadow spotted with a few huts that were only a bit bigger than his was, along with a larger building (not much larger), a pen with several animals in it and a field that one of the boys – too far to tell who it was - was working on. In the distance, a fully-fledged forest rose, pressing up against one of the walls like an angry mob eager to tear it down.

He couldn’t stop staring. This could only add to the thousands of questions tramping restlessly through his head, and as he swiveled, mouth dry, he heard Alby laugh.

“Takes a bit of getting used to, huh?” The dark skinned boy gestured negligently around the area, as if that action could summarize the sheer size of it all. “We call this place the Glade. Got nothing else to call it. And that would make us Gladers.” 

Newton’s mouth started working again. “A bit of getting used to? Mate, that’s the award winning understatement right there.” His hand on his hip as if to steady himself, he twisted around again, paying more attention to the little signs of human work. “How?” was all he could manage to produce.

Alby knew what he was on about. “The Box seems to bring up a new guy once every month. It brings up supplies once a week. Tools, nails, seeds, even animals. Stuff like that. We’ve chopped down a few trees, made what you see now.” A smile that was more like a grimace crossed his face. “Not exactly five stars, I know. We’re working on it. Hard when we don’t… well, y’know. Remember.”

Newton paled a bit at that and turned away. “Yeah, I know. So how long has it been?”

The Glader looked out over the meadow, his fingers idly twining together. “Months. Four, if you wanna get specific. One boy at a time. We’ve been trying to-”

“The newbie’s awake!” Cutting Alby off, the familiar voice had both of them pausing. Gally approached, his hand held up in a lax greeting. The towering boy was drenched in sweat, very dirty, his skin was peeling from his work in the sun and he was, Newton was nonplused to see, sporting a lurid black eye that certainly hadn’t been there the last time he’d seen him.

Whatever hostility had been present when Newton first arrived, it was gone or hidden now. “Good that you’re up and about!” Gally announced cheerfully, leaning a hoe casually over his shoulder. “Almost thought you were gonna pull a fairy tale and turn into a frog, you were so green.” The mocking note had disappeared, and Newton actually found his lips pulling up a bit at the teasing in the other young man.

“Well, which of you poor sods would have had to kiss me all better?” he replied cheekily, getting a pleased laugh out of both of them.

“Poor sods? That’s a nice English swing you got going. Think you could teach us it?”

Now that he thought about it, Gally’s and Alby’s words had rung a little flat in his ears, and he cocked his head quizzically at the both of them, realization dawning. “Sound different, do I? That’s all for the best; you both sound like you have a head cold.”

More laughter, and there was a nagging voice demanding why he’d be different – why he’d have a different accent – but Newton brutally pushed it aside, unwilling to break open the box of overwhelming questions once again, trying to take shelter in the light chatter.    

Gally’s smile faded a bit, and he became more serious. “Look, about this morning. Klunk way to greet a new guy. It’s just… we were hoping for something different. Maybe a few answers, you know?”

Newton nodded slowly, his mind skimming the strange word and instead going over what they must have felt. Waiting with bated breath, hoping and praying that it would be something more than just a boy, only to be greeted by yet another clueless face. It had to be almost as hard for them as it was for him.

He twitched his shoulders, trying not to feel like a disappointment. “Sorry I couldn’t jump the standard,” he said, and though it was an attempt at humor, it fell flat.       

Shaking his head violently, Gally replied, “Not what I meant. We were hoping, but really, we knew it wasn’t gonna be different. Shouldn’t have taken it out on you.” He hefted the hoe to a more comfortable position on his shoulder, looking a bit awkward. “Anyways, just wanted to say sorry. This isn’t no Eden, but we’re glad to have you.”

With that, he gave another wave and walked away, headed for the field he’d left a few minutes earlier. Newton raised his eyebrow at Alby, wondering at the sudden change.

“Told you he’d apologize,” Alby said, bending over to pick up the stick he’d dropped. “He just had to blow off some steam.”

Pointing at his face, Newton asked, “By…?”

“Getting in a fight.” The dark skinned boy scowled, continuing to shave off the tip of the stick with more force than necessary. “Picked one with George. Had to pull them apart, but they both said they felt better after it. As if we need that klunk.”

The second usage of the word made the newbie frown. “Klunk? What’s that supposed to mean?”

Alby looked vaguely surprised, as if he’d forgotten it was a made up word. “Oh. Means garbage. Shit. Take your pick. Comes from… I’ll explain on the tour, okay?”

“The tour?”

“Yeah. Figure all you new guys deserve a grand tour on your first day. How else you gonna learn the ropes?”

There was something about Alby’s wording that was a little off to Newton, but he couldn’t quite put a finger on it, so eventually he just shrugged. “Good that I’m being shown the place,” was all he said.

As Alby led the way, heading towards the forest, and he tossed the sharpened stick between his hands in an idle manner as he walked. On closer inspection Newton realized that it was being turned into a spear, or something like that. He hadn’t realized it before because he hadn’t looked closely. A cold feeling swept down his back and he stopped, teeth gritted against the sensation.

It was like a switch. One second he thought he could deal with this – could deal with being shoved into a weird place with no memory of who he was or why he was there – and the next second, reality stepped in and reminded him that this was mental. It was all _mental._ Why would you need a spear when you didn’t need to hunt? What was it that the Gladers had to defend themselves against? He was afraid, and suddenly the light conversation, the almost joking atmosphere, seemed ridiculous, pathetic. Who were they to laugh when the walls loomed high over their heads, as high as their own ignorance?

Alby had taken a few steps without noticing Newton’s abrupt halt, but he returned with a questioning expression a moment later. “Newt?” he asked tentatively, and the name sent another icy shudder tumbling down his spine. Newt and Newton. Two different people. Newton couldn’t handle this place and all it would bring; he knew that instinctively. But Newt had absolutely no past, no delusion or hope to cling to in the abyss. He would have to face the future with nothing but what he could make for himself, and that was a horrifying prospect.

His breathing had picked up, became labored, panicked. It felt like he couldn’t heave in enough air to fill his chest and Newt gasped wildly, struggling to breathe. He staggered and Alby caught him in a painfully firm grasp, shaking him a little.

“Hey, hey!” the Glader said, forcing Newt to turn around and face him. “Relax. Close your eyes. Breathe. In and out. Come on.”

Reluctantly, because he couldn’t think of anything else to do to battle the attack, Newt did as he said, eyes fluttering closed and chest lurching with his efforts to get a breath, his limbs feeling numb at his side. Alby kept up a calming mantra. “Calm down. It’s okay. You’re okay. We’ll be alright, we’ll be fine.”

And Newt latched onto those words, forced them through his own head. _I’ll be okay. I’ll be fine. I’m okay._ It didn’t help, at first. His face was tingling, and he felt like if he opened his eyes, he’d find himself drifting straight out of his body. But he repeated the words. _I’ll be alright. I’ll be alright. We’ll be fine._

Eventually his breathing eased and Newt found that he’d survived his first panic attack. Alby had dragged him into the shade of the trees and leaned him against a tree, and when he surfaced the short haired male was watching him intently, fingers drumming against his thighs. Time had definitely passed, because the sun was half-eclipsed by the walls.

“Alright Newt?”

Unable to meet his dark, concerned eyes, the other boy leaned back, resting his head against the rough bark of the tree. “I’m gutted,” he replied eventually. “This – all this is just too much.”

“And that’s okay.”

It wasn’t what Newt expected to hear, and he turned a bit, eyeing Alby sidelong. The Glader was frowning at him, almost impatiently. “Look,” he said, “you’re in a random place with no memory of nothing. I’ve had some time to think about this, and anyone that don’t lose their heads when they first come up… well, they ain’t right in their heads, y’know? If you gotta cry, cry. If you gotta punch something, do it. If you wanna go off on your own for a bit, just stick to the Glade and let us know, and that’s good too.”  

They were quiet for a long, long moment, and the newest Glader turned the statement around in his head, working it like a puzzle he had to solve. He hadn’t been able to see it without someone pointing it out, but every second since he’d been in the Glade – every single bloody second – he’d been trying to brush the panic aside. It didn’t always work, but it wasn’t working either way. It just… festered inside of him, choking him with the hysteria… and the guilt. Guilt that he wasn’t strong enough to keep it down, guilt that he was so weak he’d let someone take everything that was most important to him away, guilt that he couldn’t help these boys any more than he could help himself.

Maybe he’d been someone important in his old life – someone who took care of other people – and that was why he felt such a strong sensation of blame, but deep down Newt thought that was probably rubbish. They wouldn’t send someone important, someone useful, to a place like this. Which just meant that he had to deal with his own inferiority.

He couldn’t do it alone. Newt knew that. But he hadn’t been able to see the load around his neck even if it was drowning him, and someone else had seen it, reached out and tried to pull some of its weight. He wasn’t alone in this, and, perhaps more importantly, he wasn’t _expected_ to deal with it alone.

“What a bloody nightmare,” he muttered under his breath, and Alby grunted his agreement.

“Yeah. That about sums it up.”

They sat for a while longer, but Newt had managed to get control of himself, and this was more like relaxing than contemplation. Eventually he stirred. “I’m still up for that tour,” he said, “and, honestly, any food you’ve got laying around.”

“Figured you’d be hungry. That’s our first stop.” Almost like the incident hadn’t happened, Alby sprang lithely up and held out his hand. Grateful and just the slightest shade of embarrassed, Newt reached up and grabbed his wrist, let the larger boy haul him to his feet. Appreciative words rose to his tongue, but Alby didn’t seem to be looking for a thank-you, and, honestly, he didn’t want to say it. He let them die in his mouth.

As promised, their first stop was food. Or, more specifically, a place that stored food. Not too deep into the forest, a squat stone building stood, looking far more firm than the huts he’d seen in the field. It seemed like it’d been there for longer, too, which Alby confirmed as he wrestled open the metal door.

“This was here when I got up. The first few weeks, they sent up perishable stuff, and that’s mostly gone now. They don’t need to be giving us too much in the way of food, except some stuff that we aren’t growing or making yet, and I’m thinking they’ll give us even less once the crops – that field Gally was working – spring up. We got our very own pipes to feed ‘em water, they were there from the beginning too, so at least there’s no worry about a drought.”     

 Newt could feel the other words floating between them. That was about the only thing they didn’t need to worry about.

Alby continued as he walked into the building. “Keep the stuff in here so the sun doesn’t so as much damage. Not really sure what it was meant for in the first place, but it does a good enough job for storing food and supplies.”

The building was one room filled with crates, not all that much bigger than the Box, and within a few seconds Newt shook his head and backed out, swallowing involuntarily as he leaned against the solid cement, his heart racing. _Git,_ he told himself contemptuously, but it wasn’t enough to prod him back inside. He couldn’t shake the feeling that if he went in all the way, the door would slam shut behind him, trapping him forever.

Alby came out a few minutes later, seemingly unfazed, his hands holding a treasure trove of items. He handed the majority of them to Newt who, with an effort of will, managed to stop his hands from trembling as they accepted the food. It was mainly dried – dried meat, dried fruit – and at first he could only manage to pick at it, mouth as dry as the stuff he was trying to eat.

But still… he couldn’t remember the last time he’d eaten. Literally. His stomach assured him it had been a good, long time, and eventually Newt began to chew the food with more enthusiasm, gobbling the last few pieces down like they were cotton candy.

How he knew that was his favorite sweet, he didn’t know, and it made him sad to try and remember. Instead of trying to drown the emotion he just felt it, playing with a pit seed while the tears surged but didn’t fall. Eventually he threw it away, and Alby, who’d also eaten something in companionable silence, straightened.

“Next stop, the Pits. You’ll really like this part.” Flashing a wane grin, he travelled further into the forest, the walls just visible between breaks in the branches. Newt did his best to ignore them and focus on what Alby was saying. “We needed a place to do our business, and the people who put us here did provide. They’re good like that.” The formal words sounded weird coming from the casual Glader, and it made the subtle bitterness in his voice more pronounced.

About one hundred feet beyond the storeroom, a pit had been dug. There were several stacks of wood nearby, suggesting that something greater was planned, but for the moment it stood open to the elements. Alby gestured at it curtly. “My guess is that you can figure out what this is for. You need an instruction manual?”

When Newt hurriedly shook his head, the dark boy laughed. “Good. That makes my job easier. But you’ll see that it makes a certain sound when you use it – klunk. That’s where we get the word from.” Equal parts disgusted and embarrassed (probably more disgusted), Newt nodded and kept walking, hoping there’d be something else on the tour, something a little less… klunky.

Luckily, Alby had the same thing in mind. “Wanna show you one more thing, Newt,” he said, “and this is important. You saw the gaps in the walls, right?”

“Hard to miss them,” Newt replied, looking up through the trees at the towering barricades of stone. They were definitely getting closer to one, and he licked his lips nervously, thoughts abruptly going back to the half-made spear that Alby was still carrying. It didn’t result in another melt down – the fact that he was being given answers to his questions seemed to help that – but each unknown thing was still nerve-wracking.

“The gaps lead out of the Glade, in a way. We haven’t managed to-” Newt’s tour guide was saying, when abruptly two boys broke out of a stand of trees, axes swinging by their sides. He recognized both of them from their meeting at the box.

One, who was short and quite stolid, waved at them. “Good that the newbie’s up and running!” he shouted, dropping his hand as they got closer. “Alby told us you’re Newt. I’m George and this is Ben.” Though George was actually grinning, a large, infectious smile that spread across his face, his companion just grunted and wiped the sweat off his brow in an impatient way.

Where George was short, Ben was tall, tall and wiry. Where George had a shock of red hair, Ben’s was dark and kept long and his skin was lightly tanned. Newt brought himself up short as he realized the only reason he’d been observing the boys so closely was because he wanted to make a comparison with himself. Which was, obviously, impossible.

Trying not to scowl, Newt nodded a greeting. “Ben, George,” he recited faithfully, and watched the way their faces brightened as they caught his accent. _Well,_ the new Glader thought, _at least I’m good for some entertainment._       

 “You gonna show him the Maze, Alby?” Ben asked, and the name immediately piqued Newt’s interest. Obviously. Anything called the Maze had to be interesting. He looked towards his guide curiously.

Alby was nodding slowly. “Yeah. That’s where we’re headed now. You two manage to get the tree down?”

Obviously they knew what tree he was on about, because George nodded, a trifle smugly. “Yup! Only took us about half a day; that beats you and Gally’s record!”

Snorting, Alby waved them off. “Good luck telling Gally that,” he said, and they parted ways, the other boys continuing in the direction of the huts. Or at least, Newt thought it was the direction of the huts. It was pretty easy to get turned around.

His smile slowly dropped off his face, and Alby was very quiet as they kept going through the trees. Newt noticed there was a faint trail, as if the boys had trod through this area quite a lot, and his interest increased until it was almost painful. Was the Maze a way out of the Glade? Were there more areas beyond this one clearing?

It was starting to get dark, and Newt wondered how long he’d been out for. In the midst of all the uncertainty, the sun’s position hadn’t sunk in, and now it was too late to try and figure out when the Box had come up. The low light leant a certain tense vibe to their walk, and each time his foot crunched against a bit of forest debris he winced a bit, excitement making him more high-strung than usual.

Or at least, Newt thought he was being more high-strung than usual. He certainly couldn’t remember ever sucking in his breath each time his shoe hit something, and something told him he was normally more laid back than that.

They weren’t going fast; in fact, Alby almost seemed to be dawdling. But when they broke out of the cover of trees – it turned out the forest didn’t actually push right up against the wall – he didn’t seem to be particularly nervous, just pointed at the gap that loomed up ahead like a toothless mouth. “That’s the West Door. It leads out into the Maze. Now listen close, ‘cause I’m not saying this again.”

Something about his tone made Newt tense and lean closer. He was definitely listening. Satisfied that he was paying attention, Alby continued, “Don’t leave the Glade if it’s getting dark. It’s not a rule, it’s common sense. The doors close at night, and believe me when I say you don’t want to be out when they do. We clear on that, newbie?”

Alby hadn’t called him that before, and the usage of the derogative brought home the seriousness of the issue. Though something in him wanted to immediately shake his head and demand answers, instead he just nodded. After all, they’d been here for months. He’d been here for hours. Why would he question them?

Which didn’t mean he didn’t have questions. “Not saying that I plan on going out,” he said, wanting that to be clear, “but what’s so bloody dangerous about it at night?”

Swiveling to face the Door, Alby looked up at the sun, which was almost completely out of sight. “You’re gonna know why in just a few minutes,” he said, and Newt, though frustrated at the vague answer, decided to hold himself in for, at least, a few minutes.

He was just about to break his silence when, with a massive, groaning thunder, the Door began to close.   


	3. Facts of Life

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry about the slow pace so far, but needed to get some stuff set up! It'll get faster from here on out, I promise. Oh, and thanks a lot for kudos and comments both, I really appreciate knowing you guys are having fun with this!

His last sight of the Maze was a long corridor that abruptly split into two pathways some distance from where they stood. As the doors – two immense slabs of stone – scraped together, cutting off his vision, a loud boom reverberated through the Glade, vibrating in his very bones as the other three doors repeated the process. Newt took a step back, stunned by the noise as well as the implications. They were sealed in, trapped.

From what Alby had said, Newt gathered this only happened at night, but why? What did the creators of this bewildering place not want them to see at night? What were they stopping the boys – the Gladers – from finding?

Or, more ominously, what were they stopping from finding the Gladers?

Eyes tight, Newt was about to ask Alby when he realized the other male had moved away to sit on a stump near the edge of the clearing. There were several others close by, and a small toppled oak was probably the object of George’s boast. The newest Glader trailed after his guide, questions surging through his head, questions about the Maze, about the Glade, about everything.

“Alby,” he began, “why-” but he was cut off.

“Just listen, okay? You’ll find out soon enough. Why don’t you take a seat?”

Not wanting to argue, but too anxious to join Alby on the makeshift chair, Newt paced instead, fidgeting and kicking at the debris on the ground. After a few minutes of watching him, Alby shook his head and started working on his spear again, the sound of his knife scraping at the bark the only noise Newt’s straining ears could find.

He needn’t have listened so intently. About fifteen minutes after the doors had shuddered closed, Newt heard, close enough to make him jump, what Alby had said he would. And, instantly, he understood why you wouldn’t want to be caught outside of the Glade when the lights dimmed and the doors closed.

If metal could be tortured, that was the sound it would make. A rusty, high pitched shriek that stabbed into Newt’s every nerve and made him want to cover his ears. A few seconds later and the sound was repeated but deeper, more animalistic, a metallic bellow instead of a screech. It evoked an equally primitive reaction from the listener, a sudden adrenaline rush, and he trembled in an automatic fight or flight response. Brutally, Newt suppressed it.

He stumbled and sat – collapsed – onto Alby’s stump, breathing heavily, muscles stretched in taut anticipation of the next roar. His wide-eyed stare traced the looming walls with a new found gratitude. When he found his voice, Newt managed to gasp, “What the bleeding hell is that?”

Brow creasing, Alby glowered at the walls, his mouth a grim slash, seemingly not frightened by the noise. “It’s a really, really good reason to stay out of the Maze at night.”

At Newt’s incredulous expression, he jerked his shoulders in a savage shrug, lips thinning in defensiveness or irritation, it was hard to tell. “Never seen it, okay? And I don’t want to. All I know is that when we’ve been in the Maze during the day, we’ve never seen anything alive, let alone anything that could make a sound like that. And I’d like to keep it that way.”

“But why is it there?” Judging by the way Alby’s strong jaw tightened, the newest Glader felt like he was pushing too hard, stepping on a line, but what else could he do? They were apparently neighbours with animated meat grinders, and Alby didn’t know anything? Hadn’t they investigated at all? What was the spear for, if they weren’t even sure what was out there? Were they planning on actually doing something in the Maze, not just sitting around in the Glade?

It wasn’t until Alby surged to his feet that Newt realized he’d said the last question out loud – if he hadn’t also spoken some of the others. Coloring with embarrassment, he ducked his head, not soon enough to miss how completely done the other boy looked. How angry.

“Just sittin around?” Like a fist, Alby’s voice struck out, hard and brutal. “Listen here, newbie, and listen good. Someone put us here. This wasn’t no great act of God. Someone stole what we got and gave klunk all in return. Dunno what for, except that they’re cruel bastards. You think people like that – people who could abduct a bunch of kids and wipe their memories – wouldn’t put something dangerous in the Maze with ‘em?”

Newt wanted to protest – wanted to say that he hadn’t meant it that way, hadn’t meant to be insulting – but Alby steamrolled on, frightening in his anger, and he couldn’t manage to say anything loudly enough to stop him.

“We’re stuck here. Not forever, maybe, but for now you can bet your sorry ass that we are. The Maze might be the way out, but maybe this is just some game that doesn’t have an end. Maybe it’s a television show for a bunch of sickos that just like watching people lose their heads. So yeah, we’re gonna do something; we’re gonna be _careful_. We’re not gonna lose our heads.”

Without looking at him directly, Newt could see that Alby’s chest was heaving, his hands clenched at his side, and if he’d been stupid and less mortified and a little less afraid, he might have said something like, ‘Speaking of not losing our heads…’ But Newt wasn’t stupid, and as much as he resented being told off, he kinda deserved it, so he took the rant as well as he could, staring at his hands and trying not to look sullen.  

Maybe Alby appreciated that, or maybe he was just running out of steam, but his voice softened a little as he continued. “I came here first, alright? And they gave me nothin. Not one clue about why, or even how. I had to figure out how I could manage, and I had to do it alone. I thought I’d stay alone. But then the box brought up George, Ben, Gally and now you. And I ain’t losing boys just because their stupid egos make ‘em brave, you feel me?”

“You were here… alone?” Involuntarily, he wrenched his gaze from his pale fingers and glanced at Alby, wary respect creeping into his eyes as the dark skinned boy nodded fiercely. Newt didn’t know what he would have done if he’d been spat into a field that was empty of anything, with no memory, surrounded by walls that defied logic. Probably curled up and cried.

He found himself wondering if Alby had done that the first day – the first week – and bit his tongue to keep from saying anything stupid. The first day was not the day to start asking strangers personal questions. It was weird though. Being empty of personal memories, of experiences to draw and judge from, it was hard to look at Alby as a stranger. It felt like Newt had known him all of his life… and in sad, pathetic way, he had. This boy, and the three others he met, might as well have been family, for all that Newt could remember.

His eyes had drifted back to his knees, covered by rough brown pants he couldn’t even recall putting on. Finding that he was biting at his lip, Newt stopped himself, sighed lightly. “I feel you,” he said dully, the strange words feeling flat and bitter in his mouth. “We’re stuck here. Can’t complain, can’t do anything about it. I feel you.”

The experienced Glader was frowning at Newt, though Newt didn’t see it. “That’s not what I meant. Can’t give up, but we do gotta be aware that this ain’t Disneyland. Still, even this place has got an exit. See?”

For the first time since surfacing, he felt a new emotion stirring in his chest, an emotion besides fear or overwhelming confusion; it was anger. Lips drawing back into a scowl, Newt pushed himself up, disgruntled to find that Alby was significantly taller than he was. “See? Yeah, I see. You said yourself, you’ve been stuck here four months. _Four bloody months._ If you haven’t managed to find something in that time, what in the sweet heavens makes you think we’ll find something now?”

Uncertainty Newt could face. He’d shown that by not going stark mental when the box had first opened up to the light. But this brittle hope that Alby was so condescendingly offering… it was too much to take. Four months in this rat trap? Newt didn’t think he could handle four days, not if they never found anything to suggest progress.

It was too much.

With an incensed huff, he swiveled on his heel and began to walk away, away from the doors and away from Alby. He broke into a light run when he heard the other boy call his name but didn’t look back, blood pounding unpleasantly through his head. A few seconds later, when the trees had engulfed him, he risked a glance behind and was relieved to find that Alby hadn’t followed, was still standing by the stump. He slowed enough to get through the underbrush without falling flat on his face.        

He didn’t know where he was headed, but that hardly mattered; it wasn’t as though he could get truly lost in this place. Moving didn’t feel good – in fact, all he wanted to do was sit down – but moving in the dark wasn’t easy, and it took a level of focus that drove away everything else. So he kept going, sometimes jogging, more often walking fast, skinning his shins on rocks and roots and not particularly caring. And always, always, through gaps in the trees to his right, he could see the walls, threatening and utterly unbreakable. A mixture of reassuring and detestable.

The end of the forest came too soon, and Newt didn’t leave the embrace of it, his gaze straying blankly over the open parts of the Glade. As he’d feared, stillness brought another rush of emotion, and he stayed just long enough to see that the boys had lit a fire near their huts – he couldn’t tell if they were all sitting around it – before rushing back through the woods. This time, the movement didn’t bring relief, and he shied away from the darkness, his heart pounding, breath slowly but surely picking up until he was panting and, frankly, freaking out. _Four days, four months, four years,_ a constant chant in his head, and eventually Newt broke out of the other side of the trees and staggered against the wall, clutching at his chest.

Cold beneath his shoulder, the stone wasn’t reassuring, but it was something to lean against while he fought for breath. His vision gradually became normal again, the darkness at the corners seeping away, and, still painfully agitated, Newt kept moving, one hand touching the wall as he travelled along it, keeping track in the dark. His fingers kept brushing things – small imperfections, indents in the barrier, and strands of ivy – and eventually Newt felt his calmness beginning to return.

Along with a massive helping of guilt and self-disgust. _What a bloody twat. Alby tells you like it is, and you have a meltdown. Good job, that._

Biting at his cheek, he angrily ripped away a large chunk of ivy that his hand happened to be resting on and threw it to the ground. About to turn around, he paused when a flicker of motion at the corner of his vision caught his attention.

A sudden cascade of goose bumps made it hard to move, but Newt did, twisting back to the wall, turning back to the bare patch that the ivy had been covering. His fingers came up – reluctantly, carefully – and brushed against the surface, hard to see because of the lack of light. It was smooth and square, almost perfectly so, completely different than the wall it was embedded in. Plastic or glass came to mind.

Hesitantly, Newt leaned forward, trying to see the movement he’d previously detected, not even sure if he was seeing anything in the dark. He moved closer until his nose was almost brushing the surface and squinted, hoping to see something, anythi –

And leaped back with a muffled yell when he felt more than saw something smash against the frame, a dark thing that was merely a shadow, and heard the howling screech that had become the epitome of terror in such a short time. Heart in his mouth, another scream bubbling in his throat, Newt stumbled back, nearly tripped he was moving so fast.

And then something grabbed his shoulder, and the scream burst from his chest, and he thought his heart might have gone with it.  


End file.
